


Oathkeeper

by mathildia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Rape Recovery, rape revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Sansa said ‘knight’, she put a special emphasis on the word, made it jut out of the sentence, like you couldn’t possibly miss what she said or what she meant. Brienne has been called ‘knight’ by people who wanted to make that word carry more meaning before, many many times before. Men who liked to call her a knight in a way that made it clear that to them, she was anything but. But that wasn’t what it sounded like when Sansa said it, when Sansa said it, it sounded like Brienne was so much more.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oathkeeper

**Author's Note:**

> A different ending to Battle of the Bastards
> 
> Thanks to Spitshine for the fast beta read.

Brienne’s fingers are long enough that when she cups Sansa’s shoulders they splay right out over her shoulder blades. She holds Sansa tight through the thin gown. And Sansa is so slight. She’s tall for a maiden, but still smaller than Brienne. 

Brienne’s crowding her back against the dungeon wall. She shoves an armoured thigh between Sansa’s shaking legs and Sansa gasps, letting her cunt slip to press down onto it. Brienne is so happy she wants to laugh, and Sansa’s mouth is open for something that could be her own laugh or a gasp of pleasure when Brienne kisses her. 

Sansa goes soft and Brienne takes a cue to kiss hard, to press deep. It feels good. Sansa in her mouth, tongue rubbing over her tongue, slow and then fast and then hard, licking at her lips. It makes Brienne’s cunt pulse, a thud of heat, as urgent as the war drums that still bang in her ears, and she wants to use her tongue everywhere. It’s right. All her life she’s thought about what’s right, what’s good and true, found herself wrong time and time again, and yet, she’s knows she’s not wrong now. Not wrong. At last.

“I always dreamed of being bedded by a _knight_ ,” Sansa whispers, words on catching breath as Brienne moves her mouth away from hers enough that she can speak. At her words, a shiver zips through Brienne’s body from her scalp to her her toes, every hair on her body stands erect, her nipples stiffen and her cunt floods like a dam has broken. She soaks herself so completely she can feel the dampness seep between her thighs; the dampness and the sticky heat. Because Sansa always wanted a knight.

When Sansa said ‘knight’, she put a special emphasis on the word, made it jut out of the sentence, like you couldn’t possibly miss what she said or what she meant. Brienne has been called ‘knight’ by people who wanted to make that word carry more meaning before, many many times before. Men who liked to call her a knight in a way that made it clear that to them, she was anything but. But that wasn’t what it sounded like when Sansa said it, when Sansa said it, it sounded like Brienne was so much more.

“But what about you?” Sansa whispers. “I heard that you liked handsome men. Renly the Usurper. The Kingslayer. I’ve seen them. You have a certain type.”

Brienne is a little sickened at those names. “Lady,” she says, “you shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

“What else would you have me do,” Sansa says, and her hair is rubies and gold in the light from the brazier and the flickering sconces, and her lips are wet. Brienne kisses her again.

“Pretty,” she says, pulling away to make Sansa whimper. She tries to follow Brienne’s mouth, but Brienne holds her hard to the wall and looks at her sternly - feeling the shiver in Sansa and in herself. “I like them pretty, my Lady.” She takes a strand of Sansa’s red hair and twirls it between her fingers. It glitters like it contains its own fire and Brienne sighs, enraptured. “And you, Lady Sansa, are more beautiful that King Renly, in all his glory at High Garden, or Jaime Lannister and his gold.” When Brienne leans back into the kiss, Sansa moans, rutting on Brienne’s thigh like she’s moments from her pleasure.

Sansa whispers, “Fuck me, Brienne, Brienne of Tarth. Put your mouth on me. Fuck me while he’s dying.”

Ramsay’s behind them in the dungeon, still alive, if barely. He’s tied to a long low bench, arms lashed above his head, and feet the same so he’s pulled as taut as a lyre string. He’s naked but for blood and bruises, a boot mark on his hip that happened before Brienne took him from a mob of Wildlings, saving his death for the lady who needed it most. A bloody cloth covers his dick, or what remains of it. Brienne had first suggested she cut it off with Oathkeeper, pulling off a gauntlet and twisting Ramsay’s soft cock. “Shall I, my lady?” she said, liking the way he shook as she drew the sword, slow, letting him hear it. “Rumour is, he liked to do such things to his own prisoners.”

Sansa shook her head, smiling and asked Brienne if she could, instead, smash a mace into his groin with all her might, because - she smiled the prettiest smile, a smile like spring itself finally pushing out of the earth - because, that was what it had felt like, what the things he had done to her had felt like, that was what she wanted him to feel.

Brienne had refused that at first, thought it rather unknightly to do such a thing, but Sansa had reminded her that she had knelt before her in the snow and sworn a life long oath of service. Sansa could barely lift a mace herself. So Brienne had done it, done it and watched Sansa’s smile turn to summer, as Ramsay screamed and broke.

After, as Ramsay wrenched at the thin ropes, cutting his wrists as he tried to curl into a ball, Sansa had kissed Brienne; that had been their first kiss, Brienne’s thumbs on Sansa’s flushed cheeks and Sansa wet and hot, ice and fire. Brienne had moaned, hands slipping down to Sansa’s little waist, lifting her a little from the floor, so her face was level with hers, so she could kiss her harder. “Help me,” Sansa whispered against Brienne’s open mouth, “Help me destroy him.”

“I will cut him every place he touched you, lady,” Brienne had said. And she did.

Brienne did use Oathkeeper, later, to cut Ramsay’s tongue in half, from the tip, back, until he was gagging in the intrusion, deep into his mouth, and Sansa’s eyes were bright as hot coals. She found another knife, small with a sharp flexible blade and asked Brienne to move aside so she could cut what remained of his tongue to ribbons, forcing him to swallow anything that came detached.

They’d packed his mouth with salt and maggots; they’d covered it with wax. Sansa had used her wolf’s head seal, although Brienne had told him he didn’t deserve it. Brienne was a knight and, as a knight, she still found it hard to believe that Ramsay deserved anything other than a death on her sword. But Sansa was different. Sansa was of the north and the creatures of the north had veins shot through with ice. 

When Sansa leans back against the wall of the dungeon, lifting her skirts, bunching them to her waist, Brienne kneels like she did in the snow, but this time, not to swear an oath, but to fuck Sansa’s hot cunt with her wide, flat knight’s tongue. She makes Lady Sansa come over and over that way, with her dainty cunt messing Brienne’s face and soft hands wrenching at Brienne’s hair, as Sansa watches Ramsay Bolton die in the dungeons of Winterfell.

**Author's Note:**

> mathildia.tumblr.com


End file.
